What Families Do
by also known as LuLu
Summary: The nostalgia and history of Irving Hall are not in the rafters or the stage, but in the people who worked there, who lived the life. [Toby fic]


_Disclaimer_: Don't own Toby, Medda, or Fat Max Cohen (*the owner/stage manager of Irving Hall from the original script, who I decided to write in here for plot reasons ^^;). The original characters (ie Roger, Muriel) are mine.  
  
_Author's Note_:Some afternoons after I come home I start writing fic, and these kinds of stories are what I end up with. Writing a Toby fic was completely random, really, but I wanted to write an underwritten character, and he just presented himself. I hope this is liked, because I'm happy with the way it turned out. Thank you to Vinyl, who read this through and did Quick!Beta for me.   
  


_What Families Do_  


  
I've been thinking about it lately. I stopped for a while, but here it is again, all these thoughts and memories. This time it's not just all bad, and not just all good. It's a nice mixture of good and bad, just like how life is, both good and bad intermingled. And as I think about these things, I wonder if they're thinking about it too.  
  
Five years ago Medda took over the theater. Has it really been that long? It's so funny sometimes, thinking about it. Five years ago Medda took over the theater. She wouldn't even let me call her 'Medda' then. It was always 'Miss Larkson', even though by then I was thirty-eight, and she was, well, she'd kill me if she ever found out I revealed her true age. But five years ago, coming into a dying theater as the -- please, pardon me if this is a mouthful -- divorced, exiled daughter of some well-off, aging society man who still loved her enough to give her the money to pay for the place before cutting her off completely because of the divorce (whew!) made her feel like she had to be the mother hen to all the residual employees. And at first, she was the bitchiest mother hen there ever was, let me tell you that. She was a methodical control freak in the beginning, which probably had something to do with her failed marriage, and a control freak hen is _not _fun to be around. The sweet, Swedish meadowlark we advertise today didn't come about until a few months after she joined us.  
  
Back before Irving Hall's vaudeville show turned into The Medda Project (as we all called it in whispers behind her back), we were the city's only place to catch Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, but based on our attendance, I don't think many people realized it. Our owner and stage manager was Max Cohen. It sounds arbitrary, but he was the size of a globe. But he didn't mind that we called him 'Fat Max'; in fact, for some weird reason he encouraged it. He made working at the theater so much fun that we didn't even care that he paid us so bad. It was always enough to eat off of, at least. For me, any paycheck was better than none, since I'd just come off a layoff and had an unmarried little sister to support. I was thirty, and an actor. Well, not really. I was a fired factory worker with a little bit of a belly on me, but Max put me in the show as Wild Bill Hickok, second fiddle to the one and only Roger Marx, a guy with a great grin and a way to make everyone laugh, who played Buffalo Bill Cody (two Bills wasn't as confusing as it sounds). Medda fired Roger right after she took over, but don't feel bad for him; he's in the big leagues now, I hear. Sold-out houses, a one-man show. It's better than this, I'm sure, and I'm happy for him. But I'm rambling again.  
  
As it turns out, I loved the stage, had a gift for it, and I stayed on it for about three years, doing all of the Wild West shows Max could come up with, even with the smallest audiences, but then I had to quit. My sister got sick, and I had to stay at home with her. Max was sad to see me go, but he had to let me leave. The eleven months I spent at home seem like a hazy blur sometimes. I worked odd jobs now and then for extra cash, and I remember Max visited me twice a week, just to check up on my sister and me, and sometimes he even brought some spare change the other guys (and girls) pitched in to help me out in the tight spots. Anyway, at the end of those eight months Tammy (my sister) died of consumption, but she died in peace. I loved her a lot…at the time, she was all I had left, you know? It devastated me, to think that I was going to be alone. When the folks at Irving Hall found out, my house became flooded with them. I'd used to bring her along to some of my night shows; they knew her from that. Sometimes she would watch, and sometimes she would pass time backstage with the girls. They loved to dress her up, get her all glammed and sparkly. Max used to tell her that when she got well, he would give her a real job there. But of course, that day never came. Max did do one last thing for her, though: we held her funeral there, because I couldn't afford to give her a proper one. The more I think about it, it's more and more I realize that's the way she would have wanted it.   
  
The folks at Irving Hall made me realize that when Tammy died, I really wasn't all alone, some unmarried, out-of-work, family-less schmuck. I was a part of the theater, and they became my family. I thought I'd left them when I went home, but I was always with them and didn't know it. After the funeral, I rejoined the body of actors and began reprising my role as Wild Bill, right with Roger as Buff, Muriel Hagirdy as Calamity Jane, and Clara Orin as Annie Oakley. Max later told me that though he'd told me the 'new guy' playing Wild Bill while I was gone was great, he'd never picked a replacement in hope that I'd come back to do it again, and instead gave Muriel and Clara bigger parts. Which brings me to tell you about Muriel, who we called 'Mury'. I'd always liked her; everyone did. She was a real pretty thing, younger than me, spunky. She didn't mind that I was getting fat, either. Working with her, especially in so many scenes, was a joy. She was always ready to work, and willing to help me with the lines I was rusty on. We grew closer as the shows went on, and I'd like nothing more than to say we lived happily ever after, but we didn't. I can say with a smile that we went around together for about a year, though. I asked her to marry me a few times. She said no every time. She didn't want to settle down; she'd never understood marriage. I respected it. I guess I had to. It hurt for a little while, send me briefly downward, but it got better. The whole time everyone was there for us. Anyway, Mury and I are still friends, and we keep in touch through letters. She left Irving Hall three years ago to head to California, her eyes on the San Francisco stage. I'm getting ahead of myself now. Sorry. I suppose I should just get right to the point. I'll try to make it quick.  
  
Fat Max died on a cold October night at home, suddenly. His heart gave out on him. Our hearts were broken in response. For me, it was like when Tammy died all over again. He had never made out a will, so he hadn't left anything to anyone, including the theater. And since he had no next of kin, it went up for sale soon after. It's really not fair. Blood doesn't mean anything, and it shouldn't in the eyes of the law. Anyone who spent time at the theater knew we were Max's family and we cared more about him than anyone else who could have claimed to have been related to him. It was like when Tammy died. We were each other's family through the whole thing, and, as Roger articulated later, our only regret was that Max died alone, without us physically near him. Like Tammy, he got his proper Irving Hall burial, and for him we did it on a much larger scale. We even made a show out of it, just the way he would have wanted it. That brings us back to the theater. We (Roger, Mury, Clara, myself, and a lot of other employees) were going to chip in, scrimp all our savings and buy it ourselves, make it into a 'family-owned' business, but then Alan Larson bought it up for his detached daughter. I mean 'detached' as in more than just 'divorced', by the way. She was detached from all of us. Like I said, the bitchy mother hen didn't give a damn about any of what was there before her. The first thing she did was to gather us all up and inform of us the new plans for the theater. A musical vaudeville, with singing, dancing, and, of course, her as the star. That was the first thing. The second thing she did was fire Roger, and she threw in a few other guys and girls with him. She saw them as hangarounds Max hadn't been willing to fire, but the truth was, they did all the odds and ends that held the theater together. Every once in a while these days she realizes something and just kicks herself for it, because she discovered something they knew and didn't tell her, and she kicked herself a lot in the beginning. Roger left gracefully, like the true thespian he was, and we all gave our goodbyes that evening, with a family gathering at the bar.   
  
"Toby, gimme a toast," Roger said to me that night, audibly and visibly drunk.  
  
"I'm no good at toasts," I told him as I took a big sip of my beer.  
  
"You're an actor!" he protested.  
  
"So are you! Besides, actors never make good toasts. And you're more articulate than I ever was."  
  
"Come on, Toby, do it for him, please?" Genny, one of the costume girls who had stayed on the boat, asked me. A few of the others agreed with her, including Clara and Mury.  
  
"Fine," I agreed reluctantly. "But if it sucks, don't blame me." I stood and hoisted my drink, raising my voice to a boom. "I've known Roger for eight years."  
  
"I feel sorry for him!" joked Johnny, who watched the sandbags, from the back of the group. Everyone laughed, and his girlfriend sighed and apologized to me for her 'lush of a boyfriend', which just made Johnny laugh harder.  
  
"Over these eight years, there have been good times, and there have been bad." I paused, hoping for a positive reaction. Everyone nodded and murmured assent, which goaded me on. "The bad times will always be with us. And there may be bad times ahead." I think we all figured this. "But we have to remember that not all the times are bad, and they won't always be bad. I know I've had some amazing times over these years, many of them thanks to Roger, and I know all of us have had similar experiences. So even though you may not be with us physically in the future, Roger, you'll always be carried with us because of those events." I was nearly shaking at this point. I could see the liquor in my glass beginning to quiver. It didn't even feel like I was there making the toast; I felt like I was standing outside and watching someone else, some articulate person speaking meaningfully and for everyone. I never knew I could talk like that. I thought the only way I could is if I was reading from a script; life, though, is unscripted. I raised my glass a little higher, hoping it would maybe steady me. "So, to you, Roger. For lighting up our faces with laugher. For when you made the theater light up with your performances, even brighter than the stage lights. For lighting up our lives."  
  
"Hear, hear," the family murmured, sipping their drinks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Muriel stand up on top of her chair.  
  
"To Max, too," she said reverently, holding her gin and tonic in both hands, "for making this family possible. None of us would have known each other without him."  
  
"I'll drink to that," I whispered, closing my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, I looked over at Roger; he was nearly on the brink of tears, and this was surprising to me because I'd never ever seen him cry before, not even in a show. He mouthed the words 'Thank you' to me, and for the first time, even in my alcohol haze, I realized with frightening lucidity that tonight was the night, the last night all of us would be the family we were before Max died.  
  
We all ordered another round, and we all kept drinking. A happy time couldn't be wasted. Later, I walked with Roger home. Well, it was more like staggering. We were both kind of wasted.  
  
"Thanks, Tob," he said to me as we used each other for balance. "It really meant a lot to me."  
  
"I'm just glad it wasn't horrible," I replied, letting out a chuckle. "I was afraid of making a terrible toast."  
  
"You did good, Toby. I'm not gonna forget that toast, not until the day I die."  
  
"You're exaggerating."  
  
He threw back his head. "Probably. Look at that moon."  
  
"Yeah?" I looked up. "It's bright. Is it full?"  
  
"It looks like Max," he said. "Big and round and fat."   
  
We laughed, and I patted my rounding form. "Sometimes I think I'll be the new Max. My weight's kind of getting up there. Can't quite figure out how to stop it."  
  
We were at his door now, and he was fumbling with his keys. I don't think he heard me.  
  
"My landlady's gonna give me hell," he grinned.  
  
"Because you're drunk?"  
  
"Because I'll have to pay my rent late now." Throwing the door open, he laughed again and stepped inside. I remained on the stoop. "I'll start hitting auditions tomorrow, though, I'm sure, so I should be getting to bed and getting sober. Thanks again, though, Toby."  
  
"It was nothing. Good luck; I hope you get a great part."  
  
"Me too…I'll letcha know. Good night." He began to shut the door, but stopped short. "Listen, Toby, one more thing."  
  
I looked right at him. "Uh-huh?"  
  
"If the world needs anything," Roger said in the strange drunken wisdom we'd all had that night, "it's not another Medda Larkson, however she may turn out in the end, but I'm sure it won't be good. What we need is another Fat Max Cohen. So if you're going to be fat, do it nice, like Max, and take care of 'em." He grinned at me one more time, and then he shut the door.  
  
To put it simply, I walked home by myself and, like Rog, did my best to sleep off the alcohol.  
  
The next morning, right after I got to the theater, I got called into the new boss's office to 'chitchat', as she put it.  
  
"Sit down, Toby, please," she said, gesturing to a weak chair one of the people she'd fired had been in the middle of fixing. I nodded as I sat, hoping it wouldn't split under me, hat still in my hands.  
  
"What did you need to see me about, Miss Larkson?" I asked.  
  
"No need to be so formal, Toby," she smiled, vainly brushing a red curl out of her face. "'Miss Medda' is just fine."  
  
"Okay, Miss Medda."  
  
"I just thought I'd get to know you. I understand you've been here a long time, Toby."  
  
"Not as long as Roger, but yes, I've been here a while."  
  
"You know I have big plans for this theater, Toby?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Medda." At thirty-eight, I hated be talked to like a two year old. It was obvious Medda had very poor people skills at that point.   
  
"I want you to be a big part of them." I nodded. "But I want you behind the scenes."  
  
She obviously didn't want to know me better. I should have seen it coming, after what happened with Roger and Lise and Ed and all those people she dropped like a bad habit. Maybe it was the little bit of a hangover I had, but it caught me off guard completely. Now, I don't see how I didn't see it coming. "Excuse me, Miss Medda?"  
  
"You're not the type I want on the stage." She eyed my stout physique. "I don't think you're of the…health standards for musical theater."  
  
"You never saw Max sing and dance," I murmured, a little bitter and angry now. Bad times ahead, and now it included me. I hate living my own drunken prophecies.   
  
"Obviously it doesn't matter, because he's a hole in the ground now." I nearly rose out of my chair to slap her, if slapping a lady wasn't something that I vehemently opposed. Instead I sat silently. She never knew Max; it was obvious. "Backstage would be best, Toby. You must trust me."  
  
"How long have you been running theaters, Miss Medda?"  
  
"Only just now. Why?"  
  
"I've been here eight years, nearly. Excluding the people that aren't here anymore, I place right after Mury -- Muriel, I mean -- Dagwood the light guy, Rosie, one of the costume girls you kept on, a few others. I know this theater, Miss Medda, and I'd like it if you put some trust in me. Even if you stick me backstage, I could be stage manager and run the productions. I know all the stuff Max did, so it wouldn't be too hard for me."  
  
Medda looked at me and arched an eyebrow. "Toby, from what I see right here, you want some kind of power. If you're like this, I don't want to give it to you. I don't trust you, if you want me to be blunt, and I don't know if I want to."   
  
"And I'm supposed to trust you?" I felt angry now, with all she had done yesterday, with all of the ignorance she was showing now. Everything she said sounded scripted. She'd obviously never lived a day in her life. "Miss Medda, that's not fair at all. None of this is fair. You'll bring this theater down. You already fired the best damn actor this city had!" I put my hat on my head, watching the rage on her face. For an actress, she sure wasn't hiding it well. Her script took a different turn. "And if you're going to fire me, _Miss Medda_, for being angry or insolent, or whatever, don't even bother. I quit."  
  
I don't know why I did it. I just didn't like the stuff she was pulling. So I got up and left, simply like that. They all saw me do it; I'm sure they could hear me too inside that office. I started going right for my place, but halfway around the block, I could hear Mury behind me.  
  
"Toby!" she yelled. From the sound of her footsteps, I could tell she was running in her stage boots, which meant she was probably in her stage dress too. "Toby, stop!" I did and slowly turned around. I was right; she was in her sea green frock with gold trim, the old Calamity Jane dress from the scene where she cleaned up to look like a lady and danced with my character. I always loved that scene. "What are you doing?" she demanded, punching me on the shoulder. "Are you crazy or just dumb, Toby?"  
  
"She's pulling all this garbage, Mur!" I exclaimed, catching her fist before she tried another blow (she wasn't that strong, but hey, I wanted her still). I dropped her hands when I felt them shaking.   
  
"So you give up? Nothing's that easy! Toby, what about the family?"  
  
"She broke up the family, Mury! Her first two days, and she broke it all up! Can't you see it?"  
  
"The family is still there," she hissed at me. "Roger and some of the others are gone, but as long as there's at least two of us left in that theater, there's still a family."  
  
"Why does it matter if I leave, then, if the family will still be there?"  
  
"Because other people will want to follow you and leave too. Just because it's you doing the action, Toby, and they look up to you, especially after that toast last night."  
  
"I still don't know why he made me do that," I muttered.  
  
"You know he wouldn't ask anyone else." Muriel broke a little smile. "Even if you'll never admit it, you knew that." I nodded without realizing it. "See? Toby…"  
  
"What, Mury?"  
  
"Calm down and come back. Roger wouldn't want you doing this. Max wouldn't want you doing this."  
  
"I don't want to have to crawl on my knees in front of that woman."  
  
"You won't have to." She took my hand and began dragging me back to Irving Hall. "I promise."  
  
I began to walk with her. "If I'm doing this for anyone, I'm doing this for the family, Mury."  
  
Softly, she said, "I know." We both knew that was the way it should be. "It'll be fine, Toby."  
  
We walked the rest of the way back in silence. I ended up having to get on my hands and knees and beg Medda for my job. She demoted the hell out of me, down to where I am now. Muriel apologized later for being wrong. I smiled and told her not to worry about it. That's really all that happened that day, because I can't remember anything else, and there aren't any blanks to plug up. After that, though, I think you can fill in all the blanks on what happened with Medda and Irving Hall, and where we are today.  
  
It's been a long time since I've seen my family intact. We've all been going all over everywhere since those first days. But still, there's a group of us there from the old days, and we've known all along the things Medda is finally beginning to understand. Family is important. The stories are important. The memories are important. Even with distance, everything about the family is important. Even when it hurts and I try not to think about the painful things, like how Roger is so busy with his new career that he doesn't stop by Irving Hall, like how I may never see Mury's face again because she may never leave California, like how I know I'll never see Max and Tammy because they're dead, and those things can never be changed. And memories cannot be rewritten. Though you may disagree with this statement, I didn't choose this family of mine; I really didn't, it was all chance, but I'm glad I ended up with them. Maybe someday we'll have a second generation of an Irving Hall family, maybe even with those little paperboys Medda has around the place, I don't know. But for now, I'm still holding on to what I had before, just like everyone else that remains. And I hope they're holding on to what they have, too, and that those that left still cling to what they had.  
  
That reminds me. I got a letter from Clara yesterday, who's in Chicago with Archie, the one who used to pull the curtain for the Wild West Show. The first thing she said in it was "I'm sorry for not writing you in so long". Immediately, I forgave her. Because that's what families do.   
  



End file.
